


For The Love of Strandor

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Horses, Other, the hound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man and his horse. What more needs to be said. Sandor plus Stranger equals good feels. My twentieth fic and a gift for devilsbastian, the biggest Strandor fan I know. </p><p>It's sad. Then hopeful as are most of my short fics. </p><p>If you can't take cruelty to animals, skip this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Love of Strandor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devilsbastion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsbastion/gifts).



It was his name day. There wasn’t anyone to take note of the fact that he was now one and twenty, but Sandor Clegane didn’t give a rat’s arse. Name days were nothing more than a way to track time. The few positive ones he’d had early in life were nearly forgotten and lost, a result of both his dismal outlook on the past and too many nights spent finding the bottom of numerous cups.

 

Sandor’s mother had tried her best, had put forth all the motherly love and care she could into his first name day after _that_ day and the burns. At dawn his mother woke, oversaw the kitchens and even baked a layered cake herself, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafting through the entire Keep and making his mouth water. The previous week, Sandor had overheard his parents arguing over the cost of his presents. His father thought the amount absurd for someone so young. His mother argued that it wasn’t near enough to pay for the silence her husband demanded of her and she would no longer hold her tongue if he didn’t try to do something right by his second son. Their boy spent all his time in either the stables or the kennels. He’d grown sullen, distant, and angry.  His mother wanted a grand gesture that ought to lay a foundation of healing for them all.

 

And so, all day long he’d been showered with gifts of leather and iron. A new saddle and bridle with the promise of a horse, an elaborate dirk and a half-helm, tin soldiers –his mother knew better than to offer him Knights-, boiled sweets, quills made from the feathers of exotic birds, and not one, but two pairs of boots. Sandor piled his treasures in the dining room waiting for the feast his mother promised him. For the first time in a very long while he forgot about his face and there was a small glimmer of hope that, one day, things _would_ be better as his sister assured him.

 

Gregor and his father were out on a hunt and likely wouldn’t be back until late in the evening or perhaps not until the following day, which was all the better in Sandor’s mind. His faith in his father was thin as the crust on a loaf of bread, ready to crack and crumble with just the slightest amount of pressure. Gregor was a walking nightmare that Sandor avoided at all costs. The women of his family, he still trusted, understanding they were just as trapped as he was. Sometimes he saw purple and blue marks on his sister’s arms or caught his mother crying.

 

Never had such a fuss been made over any of their name days. Though he’d stopped believing in the Gods for abandoning him to pain and terror, Sandor prayed the gathering storm clouds would settle in that afternoon and burst, preventing his father and brother from attending supper that night.

 

The Gods were the cruelest beings of all.

 

That night, both his father and brother arrived just after the rest of the family had been seated. Not more than two bites into his meal and the door to the dining room had flung open, revealing his father and brother, both loudly laughing and covered in muck from the forests. They’d been drinking. That was either very good or _very_ bad. Suddenly, Sandor wasn’t hungry, as his stomach tensed.  His meat tasted sour and the mug of ale his mother had allowed him didn’t seem like such a treat any longer. Sandor’s eyes darted to the collection of presents he had left in the room. That had been stupid of him. Gregor was sure to notice and his brother never liked when others received more than he did.

 

Gregor was more quiet than usual throughout the meal. Sandor forced himself to eat a few more bites of his meal and a slice of the cake his mother had spent so much time in preparing. It took an enormous amount of water to wash it all down. He lied and told his mother his excitement had taken his appetite when she gave him a worried look. His own worry grew watching his brother’s eyes linger over each and every dish and present. Sandor felt as if he couldn’t breathe when Gregor lifted his mug and actually saluted him. This was a trick, the start of some future torment. Gregor was _observing_. There was something worse to come, Sandor knew it.

 

The following morning Sandor’s father took him to the village below their Keep where a reputable horse breeder lived. Mares and stallions alike were paraded before him and he was to take his pick. There were too many. It was overwhelming and Sandor let his gaze drift over to the pen holding the colts and fillies. Towards the far edge, a gangly looking colt nipped at the rumps and thighs of his companions and then pranced in joyous glee when they whinnied and kicked at him. Over and over again the colt tried out his silly rebellion, dashing away before contact was made by any hoof. It was the color of the drinking chocolate his nursemaid used to make for him, with a mane white as milk. Sandor had never seen a horse like that before.

 

“That one,” Sandor said, pulling at his father’s sleeve and pointing at the pen. “I want the one with the white mane.”

 

“It’s not yet broken,” his father warned, “and a bother to the others. It’s not a good horse.”

 

“I want _that one_ ,” Sandor repeated.

 

“He hasn’t suckled from his mother in a long time now, though you can’t saddle him for another six moons,” the horseman said, sensing a sale was close at hand. “He’s spirited at times, aye, but he’s not mean. It would give the boy something to do. Good for a lad to train his own horse.”

 

Sandor’s father shrugged and asked the man his price. The two haggled for what seemed like forever to Sandor before the colt was roped and the cord placed in his hands. The colt blinked at him. They were nearly the same height, though the colt was the taller. Sandor held his palm out and the colt immediately sniffed at it, then worked its way up his arm. It began snuffing right into the hole where his ear should have been and then tried to nibble at the sensitive new skin there. Sandor laughed. He felt _happy_ in a way he thought he’d never feel again.

 

For the next several weeks Sandor spent most of his free time with the colt he eventually named Warrior. Sandor was sure his future lie in soldiering and his horse should carry an appropriate name. Maybe the Gods would side with him in battle if his steed was named in honor of one of them.

 

Gregor came by the stables every few days and threw rocks at them. Once, he took a switch to Warrior and Sandor had thrown a rock back, drawing blood from his brother’s forehead. That cost him a torn jerkin and a black eye but Gregor didn’t use the switch again and the price seemed fair to Sandor.  The uneasy feeling that had lodged itself inside his gut on his name day started to fade.

 

Boy and horse, they both grew together. On nights when he felt most lost and lonely, Sandor would climb out his bedroom window and sleep in the straw next to Warrior. The Stable Master taught him how to clean and brush his steed and how to hobble him. When Warrior had seen his first year, the local farrier had taught Sandor how to clean the horse’s hooves and shoes. Months rolled by while Sandor and the Stable Master broke Warrior with ropes and blankets, always making sure there was a treat of carrots or apples nearby. Warrior always greeted Sandor with a nuzzle to the damaged side of his face and a soft noise. In his dreams, Sandor rode far and away on the back of Warrior. When a bridal could be slipped over Warrior’s muzzle with ease, and his back weighted with sacks of oats, the Stable Master announced Sandor could try and ride him the following day.

 

In the morning, Sandor rose with the first light of day and dressed with haste. His dirk wasn’t on the top of his chest as it should be, but Sandor assumed he’d left it in the stables by mistake. He shoveled his first meal into his mouth, ignoring the scolding tone from his mother. When he had been excused, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the stables. Outside, the Stable Master was yawning and blowing on a steaming cup of dark tea. The man gave him a pat on the head and told him to get his horse.

 

Unlatching the heavy barn door, it was the smell Sandor noticed first, though he couldn’t identify it. It wasn’t manure or piss. The scent was metallic and cold. The horses that were closet to Sandor snorted nervously and stepped in place. Sandor swallowed thickly and called Warrior’s name. There was no answering whinny. Sandor couldn’t see his horse’s gossamer mane. Coming to Warrior’s stall, Sandor slowly opened the wooden door.

 

There was blood. Blood everywhere! A lake of it spread out around the body of his horse. The straw was ruby red not yellow as it should be. Sandor screamed when he realized the pink bits were the horse’s innards. The Stable Master came running, too late, and tried to shield Sandor from the sight of the horse’s mutilated body. The Stable Master scooped him up into his arms and carried him back out to the yard. Sandor stood outside the stables shaking, his teeth chattering while the Stable Master ran to fetch his father. Sandor wanted to cry but knew that would earn him a slap to the back of his head, so he swallowed his grief and waited.

 

His father came, along with the Kennel Master. Several hounds had been missing last night and mysteriously back in their pens the following morning. The Stable Master and Kennel Master suspected foul play but Sandor’s father dismissed them, stating a desperate wolf must have somehow gotten in. Sandor thought about his name day and the silent promise of doom he knew he’d seen in brother’s eyes. The hounds knew better than to attack a horse. But if blood had been drawn first and a command given? Sandor knew the dogs would show more loyalty to man than beast.

 

Marching back to the house, Sandor’s father pulled him along saying he was sorry and they would buy him another. Sandor didn’t want another. He wanted _his_ horse. Acting like the child he was, Sandor yanked his arm out of his father’s grip and took off for his bedroom, ready to lock himself away forever and cry all he liked. He froze in his doorway instead. On his bed was his dirk, a smear of fresh blood on it and Sandor _knew_ it was all Gregor’s doing.

 

He ran. Out of the house and into the woods. No one would listen to him if he accused Gregor. No one spoke of how he’d come to have half a face. Why would this time be any different? Sandor ran until he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Then he leaned against a tree and vomited. Sandor stayed out all day and into the night. When he heard men calling for him and the dogs baying, he climbed a tree and soon it began to rain. The rain washed his scent away while he shivered throughout the night.

 

Another night passed before thirst drove him out of the tree. At a stream, a party still looking for him dragged his soaking hide back home. Gregor was gone, a newly made squire for one of Lord Tywin’s Knights. His mother was ill with a cough. She had insisted on being a part of the search for him on the first night and had taken ill from the wet and chill.  The Stable Master offered to take Sandor out to purchase another horse but Sandor refused. He would make due with whatever horse was in the stable already, wanting nothing to do with trying to befriend something that Gregor would only take from him.

 

His mother perished of a fever less than a fortnight later, his sister a few months after. Name days didn’t hold any trace of happiness after that. They were only years trickling by. Jaime had inquired as to the date once, when he had first come into service under Lord Tywin, but he trusted no one then. He trusted no one now.

 

Last week, there had been a Tourney in honor of the birth of King Robert’s second son. Sandor had entered and won a substantial purse. He stashed a few Dragons and Stags in a box under one of the floorboards in his room –only because he could still hear his mother telling him to save a few coppers, _just in case_ \- and the rest was his to squander. He had no family to spend it on and no future to save for. The first thing he bought was a woman; a good one from Littlefinger’s brothel. The girls there were clean and though he knew they didn’t care for him, they were skilled in acting as if they did. It had been a month since he’d had one and he was still a man under all the hate and scars. Baelish put a row of women in front of him in colored, transparent gowns that highlighted their best features. He couldn’t decide between the one with flowing, curled hair and a pretty smile that looked him in the face, or the one with teats so large he could fuck them. So he ordered the both of them and let Baelish take a handful of gold for each.

 

By the time the week was up Sandor still had half a purse of gold and silver left; he’d been luckier at dice than was usual for him and most of his drinks had been on the house in the hopes he would spend his winnings on food and tavern wenches over the next few weeks. The thought had occurred to him but then he overheard another man at the table behind him. A horse was the wager, not coin. And that bet had planted the idea inside his head.

 

The habits of his youth had carried over into his adult life. There was no one, single horse he was attached to. He tended to rotate between five he liked best in the Baratheon warhorse stables, but perhaps it was time to try again for one he could call his own. Gregor hardly ever frequented King’s Landing these days and besides, Sandor was bigger and less wary of his brother now. The two barely acknowledged one another since Gregor had become the master of Clegane Keep. Gregor had the land, the money and a wife while Sandor had a sword and a bad temper. There wasn’t much for Gregor to be jealous over any longer.

 

Having ignored his name day for so long, the idea of buying something for himself in celebration felt strange. But he deserved _something_ after so many years, didn’t he? A true Destrier of worth was a suitable purchase for a man of his age and status. That’s what he told himself as he made his way through the bustling markets and out to the pastures and farms surrounding King’s Landing. There were several fields dedicated to breeding fine warhorses for the Knights of King’s Landing and the soldiers that could afford them. Dumping out his entire purse to one of the Horse Masters, Sandor demanded to be shown the finest in the stables.

 

Three were brought before him; a chestnut mare and two stallions. One was gray and the other chocolate brown. He sent the chocolate one away immediately, asking to let the others be shown in the fields. The Horse Master obliged, taking each horse through a series of moves and then whistling to signal they should run. Next, they were saddled and Sandor rode each. The mare was promising. She was larger than most and responsive to his commands. The stallion stalled at times and seemed to favor running at a slight right turn. Sandor was ready to have the mare shoed and watered when he heard a shrill screech from across the yard.  A stable boy was trying to lead an absolute giant of a horse to the stables. It was pitch black from top to bottom, but its coat shined like polished armor in the sunlight. The back stallion reared and tried to bite at the hand pulling his reins.

 

“Gods damn that animal!” the Horse Master cursed, sighing and making for a whip hung over a fence. A single crack and the horse lowered itself to the ground, though it kept on screeching and trying to pull out of the stable boy’s hold. “Shut it!” the Horse Master bellowed, giving the horse a solid blow to its rump while the stable boy continued to yank at the bridle. Sandor could see blood foaming at the corner of the horse’s mouth. The beast was clearly terrified and Sandor felt a pang of sympathy.

 

“What’s the price on that one?” Sandor asked, hitching the forgotten mare to a post and making his way over to the two men.

 

“You don’t want this one,” the Horse Master stated. “He’s nothing but trouble, a pain in my arse. Comes from the greatest lineage I’ve got in the stables and he’s worthless. Can’t even plow without going through this everyday. I should sell him for kennel meat.”

 

“All the same, what’s his price,” Sandor said coolly.

 

The Horse Master frowned, sensing he wasn’t going to get all of Sandor’s gold, but the prospect of ridding himself of the “worthless” horse seemed to have his attention. “Half of what you brought,” the Horse Master finally replied.

 

“Take it. He’s mine. Bought and paid. Keep the other half as well. I want him stabled here for a month. You’ve got him so skittish I’ll never make it back to the Keep like this. And keep that whip away from him! I see any mark on this horse I’ll give ten back in return. Understood?”  The Horse Master nodded enthusiastically, happy to keep all of Sandor’s coin. Sandor took the reins from the stable boy and told both of them to leave. Then he settled himself in the shade against one of the stable's walls, clutching the horse’s reins just enough to keep the horse from bolting. He didn’t tug or force the horse to move.

 

“Whenever you’re ready, horse,” he said calmly. Sandor wasn’t at all sure why he had saved this horse, but there had been an urge he couldn’t deny to try and help it somehow. He had a lot of long days and nights ahead of him if he was going to make something out of it.

 

The stallion stared at him and pawed at the ground. Every time Sandor reached for the bridal it tried to snap at his fingers. When a different stable boy passed by, hours later, Sandor asked for fresh water and a pail of fruits and vegetables. The stable boy wasn’t gone long and soon Sandor was placing two buckets in front of the horse. The stallion sniffed at each, looked at Sandor again and tried to back away.

 

“You stubborn shit, it’s not poisoned,” Sandor growled. He was running out of patience. The horse didn’t move. Sandor rolled his eyes. “For Gods sake, look!” he barked, dipping his hand into the water bucket and drinking a palm full. It was well water at least, that was good. He wouldn’t spend all night on the privy due to bad water. Next he dug through the bucket of feed for an apple and took a large bite out of it. Holding the apple out, Sandor mumbled around his mouth full of food. “Your turn.”

 

The horse slowly stretched his neck out and sniffed at the fruit in Sandor’s hand. Sandor took another bite and offered the apple once again. This time the horse licked at it before quickly snatching the apple out of Sandor’s hand and backing up a few paces to eat its prize. When it was finished, it looked at the bucket of food but didn’t move.

 

“You serious?” Sandor asked. The beast wasn’t dumb at all. It was clever and had a sense of humor. Sandor reached into the bucket and pulled out a carrot. When he took a bite the horse gave a pleasant noise and took the rest without any fuss. It drank from the water bucket next and then stared at the food bucket. Sandor laughed and shook his head. The next item he pulled out was a turnip. “Fuck,” he muttered before trying to gnaw at it with his back teeth. He didn’t get much but the effort seemed to please the horse. Sandor fed the entire bucket to the horse that way. “Don’t get used to this,” he warned. “I’m not doing this every time.”

 

But he was wrong. The horse never demanded he eat the entire bucket with him again, but it refused to touch its food, no matter how hungry Sandor knew him to be, until Sandor had a first taste. Sandor came every chance he could over the next month. All he did was sit with the horse, talk to it, feed and water it. Anyone who tried to interrupt the two of them sent the horse into a frenzy of kicks and shrill cries. Sandor heard someone say even the Stranger itself wouldn’t try and ride the beast and Sandor knew what this new horse’s name would be. By the time a moon had passed, the stallion allowed Sandor to brush him. At the end of their first grooming session the horse nuzzled at the spot where Sandor should have had an ear and tried to nibble at his hair. Sandor felt a lump in his throat and knew this horse was _his_. 


End file.
